The Phoenix Papers Volume I
by starboarder
Summary: A collection of vignettes set during PoA while Sirius lies low at Lupin's. Twelve years of misunderstandings will leave a mark on any friendship. How do Remus and Sirius readjust to one another and move past their mutual guilt? Genfic. Canon compliant.
1. A haircut, musings and an old gramophone

As full of the unexpected as his life has been, Sirius Black has never imagined that he'd be spending his first summer out of prison hiding under the Fidelius charm in the home of a werewolf. Granted, he is on the run, and the werewolf is his best friend, but neither of those facts change the very odd circumstances in which he finds himself on this fine June day. He is seated in Remus Lupin's loo, in front of the mirror – one of the few Sirius has encountered that doesn't make snide remarks at the looker – having his hair cut.

"There," Remus says with a final snip of the scissors, and surveys his handiwork. "How is that?"

Wary grey eyes meet calm blue ones in the mirror. "I feel naked." Remus smiles as Sirius runs his hands over his newly shorn head. Several years' worth of long black hair lies in piles at his feet. "At least I don't look like an unhinged banshee anymore." He gives a single bark of laughter. "I nearly died of shock when I looked in your mirror this morning."

Remus's smile widens but he says nothing.

Sirius feels his hair one more time. "Cheers, Remus. It's not a bad job, you know. Ever considered becoming a barber?"

"If I did, I'd never hear the end of it… from you!" Remus replies wryly.

"You're right, I suppose." Sirius gives another laugh. "Pity you're not an artist, though. I expect you could fashion some fine brushes with that lot," gesturing to the hair on the floor.

"Sirius, who paints with foot-long brushes, I'd like to know? And besides, most of this is too matted to serve for anything but a rat's nest."

"I never said you couldn't cut it into shorter bits," Sirius says with mock outrage. "Rat's nest indeed!" And suddenly, they are both helpless with laughter.

"You know what it would be good for?" Remus suggests between chuckles. "A wig."

"Oh yes, the perfect costume … if you want to look like an escaped murderer!" Sirius scoffs. "Or that singer bloke everyone used to be so keen on. You know, that muggle with the dreadlocks."

"Bob Marley?"

"That's the one!"

"Bob Marley?" Remus repeats, and the look on his face sends Sirius into fresh peals of laughter. He bends over to catch his breath and catches sight of the makings of the would-be wig on the floor, then looks back up in the mirror at his friend's reflection. It is true that Sirius looks naked, Remus thinks as he attempts to regain sobriety. The hermit's beard Sirius had acquired is gone, along with his Rastafarian hair. He is clean-shaven and washed at last, and though he looks kempt and decent, there's no denying that he appears more vulnerable without the filthy black locks to hide behind. The entirety of his face is exposed and he now looks like a man rather than a creature, but Azkaban has left its mark. His eyes are huge in his sunken face, cheekbones jutting out like spare elbows, jaw line and nose all straight lines and sharp angles. It is like a physical blow every time Remus looks at him.

Sirius stops laughing, noticing the troubled look in Remus's eyes and senses a shift in mood. His lips purse of their own accord, his face expressing his desire to get away from himself – from the sudden discomfort of tension. The change of atmosphere in the room is almost palpable, and Sirius has no desire to dwell on touchy subjects. He marshals assertion.

"I can tidy this up, if you'd like," he says, bending down to collect the hair on the floor.

"No need," Remus says lightly, and banishes it with a flick of his wand. Sirius straightens and looks away, subconsciously reaching into the pocket of his robes, but his fist closes on empty air rather than the comfort of smooth, slender wood. He fights to clear his mind, aware that Remus is looking at him. An uncomfortable stillness descends. The moment of mirth is gone, and with it the miraculous disappearance, however temporary, of all their concerns and tribulations. Sirius feels wistful. He begins to sigh hugely, then catches himself and disguises it with a cough. Remus's gaze is searching. Sirius raises his eyebrows with as much innocence as he can muster.

"I'll make us some tea then, shall I?" Sirius says.

Evenings with Remus were always quiet affairs, and Sirius finds that at least in that regard, his friend remains unchanged. As soon as it is safely dark enough to escape the confines of the house without changing to Padfoot, Sirius goes to the shed in the backyard to feed Buckbeak. Although the hippogriff is far from happy about being stuck in a shed, at least he seems to understand that staying hidden is a matter of life and death, and Sirius is glad of the overtures of companionship this commonality appears to be orchestrating between them. He is not glad, however, of being in the shed itself. When they arrived the night before, Remus immediately had Sirius lead the beast to the small wooden structure behind his house, and amid the haste and danger of the situation, Sirius did little more than register it. Now he can see the deep gouges in the walls, the reinforcements on the door, the tattered blanket folded up like a bed in the corner and imprinted with the unmistakable shape of canine. This is the wolf's lair. This is where Remus goes to transform once a month, and if the state of the walls are any indication, it is where he has been going for the majority of the past twelve years. Sirius stares at the gouges in the wood and swallows hard, counting in his mind the number of years Remus had to endure his transformations alone before the discovery of the Wolfsbane potion. He multiplies the years by the number of months per year, and the product causes a coldness to grow in his chest. He shudders and strokes Buckbeak with a shaking hand.

How like Moony to say nothing, to treat the shed as though it were nothing more than a space for storing garden tools and runaway hippogriffs. Sirius gives Buckbeak a last pat and then leaves for the night, closing the iron-fortified door behind him. A glow from the lamps in the parlour spills out across the garden, and Sirius pauses in the shadow of the shed, watching. He can see his friend through the window, shuffling papers on the desk in the corner. Remus is the worse for wear after his near-disastrous transformation of a few nights ago, but not once in the past twenty four hours has he brought it up and Sirius knows better than to mention it himself.

Sirius knows that he himself has aged in prison, and has little hope of ever regaining his Black family good looks, but his own appearance seems trivial when he looks at Remus. Even on a good day, Remus had always been pale, and after seven years in school seeing him in various states of repair and disrepair, Sirius came to hardly notice his friend's pallor. He suspects he should have guessed that Remus would age the fastest of the four, and yet even this isn't enough to accustom him to the streaks of grey in Remus's hair, to the now permanent circles around his eyes, to the premature worry lines on his otherwise young face. It feels like a punishment every time he looks at Remus, a constant reminder that it is his fault that his friend had to suffer alone for twelve long years. Sirius clenches his jaw against the prickling in his eyes, steels himself, and walks inside. Remus looks up and smiles.

"How's Buckbeak?"

"Oh, all right, I guess." Sirius forces himself to sound casual as he drops onto the couch.

"And how are you? You look tired."

"No. Well, yes, a bit," he amends, "but I'll sit up a little while longer if that's OK." Remus nods.

"I'd offer you a nightcap but I doubt I've got anything half-decent. I generally don't keep much liquor around, and what I do have might be a bit dodgy as I don't drink it often." He waves a hand apologetically.

"Don't worry, I don't need anything, Moony." The nickname slips out before Sirius realizes it, and he freezes, watching his friend react. There is a silence, then Remus says slowly,

"I haven't been called that in years. Years," he repeats, looking at Sirius intently, eyes soft. "It's good to hear it again." His smile shines bright and young on his haggard face. Sirius feels relieved.

"It was long overdue, but you know what they say, better late than never!"

"You never could manage to do anything on time," Remus adds, playing along. "But I forgive you." There is the sense that he is referring to more than just the twelve-year delay in hearing his nickname. Sirius sits and absorbs the depth of the moment, still and silent because it doesn't occur to him to be anything but. In the pause, Remus goes to the bookshelf by the fireplace and begins tinkering around with something Sirius can't see. Sirius shuts his eyes, leaning back on the couch and allowing himself a rare moment of relaxation.

The low blast of the trumpet is soft enough not to make Sirius start, but unexpected enough that his eyes fly open. Remus is seating himself in a chair, gesturing to the gramophone with a considerate,

"You don't mind, do you?"

Sirius shakes his head distractedly. The music playing is not a tune he knows, but it is vaguely familiar, like something he has only half-heard, or heard in another life. This is probably the case, he reflects – most likely he'd heard it sometime during his Hogwarts days, when Remus's most prized possession was his collection of records, and he'd usually had one or another of them playing in the dormitory on free evenings.

Remus had always been a complete nutter for Muggle jazz, particularly Big Band, and had tried to share his passion with James and Sirius – a brave endeavor in itself, considering that at the time they'd been into punk bands and had had little patience with anything else, particularly anything "Grandpa Moony" listened to. Perhaps it was all the years alone in Azkaban hearing nothing but the mutterings and cries of the other prisoners, or maybe it was just that he had to be older to appreciate jazz, but Sirius sits back and listens – really listens – to the crackly old gramophone, and realizes that he feels immensely comforted by the music, by the warm, clear sounds of the instruments and the upbeat, yet relaxed rhythm that is somehow the audible essence of Remus.

The room is warm and the lamps are glowing a gentle amber and the couch is comfortable and sunken, and Sirius feels as though he's wrapped in an impossibly soft, cozy blanket of sound. The singer has a voice like liquid chocolate and velvet scarves and butterbeer all rolled into one. A feeling, long forgotten but buried somewhere deep in his subconscious, descends upon him with the suddenness of a summer storm. It is not a deeply physical sensation – just a gentle warmth in his chest, a serenity in his mind. It is not _home_ – never that, for how could it be when the word means so little to him? But he imagines it is something similar to the state of mind that _home_ triggers in other people.

Sirius knows this is not his home and could by no stretch of the imagination be his, when everything he looks at, hears and smells cries out "Remus," but it _feels right_, and he knows that if he closes his eyes and opens them again, his friend will still be sitting there. Not 17 years old anymore, considerably more tattered and a bit fussy and meticulous, perhaps, but still his friend, still Moony.

Azkaban has stripped him of his looks, his health, of twelve years of his life, even, almost, of his sanity, but at least there is one thing it hasn't taken from him. Sirius darts a fond, lingering glance at his friend. This is Remus as Sirius remembers him, collapsed boneless into an armchair, head leaning back, eyes closed, an expression of utter calm – of bliss, even – on his face, one long leg crossed over the other, toe tapping vaguely in time to the music.

Sirius watches him as his eyelids grow heavier and heavier and at last fall shut. The two men sit there until the lamps sputter and die and the gramophone shuts off with a quiet snick, and all is silent.


	2. A new wand and forgiveness

The small house is dark but for the weak light of the waning moon coming in through the windows, and the golden pool from the lamp in the kitchen. The two men are seated at the kitchen table, heads inside the circle of light, the rest of them in darkness. They are poring over maps in Lupin's atlas, Lupin tracing potential routes with his finger, making suggestions, Sirius quieter, his eyes following the finger closely and flashing occasional glances at his friend's face. He speaks only to answer Lupin's questions or to acknowledge a point.

"Well, the route seems straightforward enough," Lupin says at last, showing Sirius the more or less direct line that he'll be able to take. "My concern is more for Buckbeak's sense of direction." Sirius gives something like a grin. "Pity we couldn't put a charm on him or something."

"Trust me," Sirius says wryly, "Somehow I don't think he'd be too keen. Best leave the navigating to me."

"I wonder," Lupin begins vaguely, "if there's something else…" He sits pondering for several moments, blue eyes staring, half-focused, into the darkness beyond Sirius's shoulder. Suddenly he smiles. "I've got it. A simple point charm on your wand should do the trick. I haven't used one myself, but I've certainly come across the spell in my readings, ought to be a cinch…" He trails off, noticing the look on Sirius's face.

"I haven't got a wand, Remus," Sirius says quietly.

Lupin blinks, bites his lip and exhales, holding his breath for a few long, embarrassed beats.

"Of course you haven't. I'm so sorry, Sirius, I – That was stupid of me."

Sirius shakes his head. "Never mind, now."

Remus opens his mouth to press his apology, then thinks better of it and shuts it again. A few moments of silence pass, then Remus pushes back his chair and stands. "Excuse me a moment." Sirius watches him go to the bedroom, hears sounds of drawers being opened, papers rustled, objects being moved about. A couple minutes later, Lupin returns carrying a long, narrow box. He resumes his seat and opens the box on the table in front of Sirius. "Go on, take it out."

Sirius hesitates, then lifts the slender, polished stick of wood with a tentativeness bordering on reverence. "Remus," he says, his voice a mixture of amusement and awe, "Remus, you can't give me your wand. Are you mad?"

Remus looks on the verge of laughter as he reaches inside his robes and pulls his wand out of his belt. "I've got mine right here. That one you're holding is my old one. If it suits, you are more than welcome to it." Sirius stares at Lupin, then down at the wand in his hand. He runs his fingers lightly over the smooth surface of Remus's wand, a glow appearing in his eyes.

"You haven't forgotten how to use one, I hope," Remus says, only half-joking. Sirius gives a sudden wave, and sparks shoot out of the end of the wand. Remus smiles approval. "Try a spell." Sirius pauses a moment, then slowly turns the wand on himself. Before Lupin has a chance to express alarm, the word is out of Sirius's mouth.

"Scourgify!" A cloud of soap bubbles erupts around him, and when they clear, Lupin can see that his friend's robes, though still tattered, are now clean. Sirius eyes his garments with a satisfied smirk.

"Good riddance!" Lupin says with a laugh. "It was high time those got cleaned."

Sirius gives him a proper grin this time. "What I really need is a new set, but this will do for the meantime." He fingers the wand again. "Thanks awfully, Moony."

"Not at all." They are both silent for a time. Remus puts the atlas away, and Sirius tests a few more simple spells before finally stowing his new wand in the pocket of his robes. Remus returns to the table and sits down, running a critical eye over his gaunt, ashen-faced friend. Sirius, oblivious to the scrutiny, traces scratches on the table surface.

"Remus, when did you get a new wand, then?" He asks suddenly, looking up.

Remus is quiet for several seconds, then responds in a low voice, "November of eighty-one. My old wand just wasn't the same after – after that night.

_You mean you weren't the same after that night, _Sirius thinks, but remains silent. For once he can't think of a single thing to say. _I'm sorry? _The words are so inadequate that he cringes at the mere thought of hearing himself speak them, but what else is there to say when it is his fault that the past twelve years of both their lives have been so completely devoid of happiness? He looks helplessly at Lupin. He can't speak the words, but his eyes say it, over and over again._I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Moony. Forgive me. Forgive me, please. I'm so sorry. _

Lupin's expression turns ever so slightly, a change that is imperceptible except that there is a sudden openness in his eyes that allows the pain to shine through. He gives something like a wince, but does not look away. Across from him the dark head bows, overcome.

Remus hesitates, then reaches across the table and puts an arm on Sirius's shoulder. "It's all right, Padfoot." He knows it's not all right, it never was and it never will be all right, but it's all he can think of to say. It seems to have the right effect, because Sirius does not flinch away, and Remus can feel under his fingers the long, slow breaths he is drawing, the gentle rise and fall as the air from the summer night passes in and out of his lungs.

Many minutes later, Remus isn't entirely sure how many, he withdraws his hand. Somewhere outside, a nightingale is singing, but otherwise the night is silent. There is a slight breeze blowing through an open window in the next room, the thin curtain billowing and floating like a shroud on the honeysuckle-scented air. "We ought to get some sleep… Sirius?"

The dark head lifts, nods. Sirius gets slowly to his feet. The scrape of the chair legs on the tile floor is jarring in the stillness, and Sirius starts involuntarily. He looks around him, embarrassed, but Remus, if he notices, has the delicacy not to make anything of it. Remus crosses to the living room and Sirius regards him, standing in the dark among the shabby furniture, in his shabby, worn robes, with the faint moonlight falling across his face which is young and old at the same time, and feels safe.


	3. A letter and one crazy owl

"Good morning, Mrs. Hardwicke," Remus says as he approaches the aforementioned lady in the street. It is a glorious day, and he and Padfoot are on their way to town, Padfoot to stretch his legs and get out of the house, and he to mail Sirius's letter. Mrs. Hardwicke, who smiles kindly as she spots Remus, looks like a slightly younger version of McGonagall, if McGonagall weren't quite so thin and stern, and wore big flowered hats.

"Good morning, dear. Feeling better, I hope?"

"Much better, thank you." Remus returns the smile.

"I see you've got yourself a pet!" She beams at Padfoot, who wags his tail frantically, eager to please.

"Oh, I'm just taking care of him for a friend. You can pat him if you'd like. He's very well behaved."

"What's he called?"

"Er, Snuffles." Remus knows Sirius is going to kill him for this, and can barely keep the smirk off his face as Padfoot cocks his head and fixes him with a stare. Remus does his best to ignore him as he exchanges a few more pleasantries with Mrs. Hardwicke, and then he and Padfoot continue on their way.

"Mrs. Hardwicke and her husband are my neighbours," Remus tells Padfoot, speaking quietly so he won't appear completely potty to any passers-by. "Well, they live in the village but theirs is the closest house to mine. They're not the only other wizards in the area, but they're the ones I see most frequently. Mr. Hardwicke is retired now, but he's still sharp as a razor. Used to work in Muggle relations, I believe, which explains how they've managed to fit in so well – they've got loads of Muggle friends, though they invite me round to tea pretty regularly. Haven't got a clue as to my condition, of course. Mrs. Hardwicke believes I'm a sickly type, so she fusses every time we meet. I had to tell her I left Hogwarts because the winters were too harsh." Padfoot looks up at Remus with pitying eyes and Remus smiles sadly at him, but says nothing. They wend their way toward the small row of shops that marks the centre of town.

The wizard post office in Remus's village is so small that between himself, Padfoot, and the smiling witch behind the counter, the stuffy room is almost full. Above the woman's head is a perch where the mail owls would be, if there were any, but all of them seem to be off on business. Remus notes the empty perch and opens his mouth to tell the attendant that he'll have to come back later, when something small and fluffy nearly collides with his head. Padfoot starts barking. The witch rolls her eyes as Remus, his hand held up to shield himself in case shielding is required, looks around him warily. A snitch is zooming around above their heads, taunting Padfoot who seems to be well on his way to madness from over-curiosity, and finally fluttering to a rest on the perch. Remus raises his eyebrows. A minute owl is sitting in the snitch's place, making wild, excited sounds that would be called hoots, except that they are so high-pitched they are more like peeps. Padfoot's eyes are fixated on the creature, his body frozen but trembling slightly from concentration. Remus puts a gentle hand on the dog's back to calm him.

The woman shakes her head with irritation, though it is clear she's trying her best not to laugh. "Our newest mail owl," she says by way of introduction. "We were supposed to get some proper-sized ones, but when the breeder turned up, all he could give us was this pigmy." She rolls her eyes again. "He's useless, I'm afraid. Can barely handle a standard-sized envelope, let alone a parcel. He does liven the place up, though, I'll give him that." She gives a wry smile in the owl's direction, who continues with his happy exclamations.

"I've got a letter, here," Remus says at last, "that's rather urgent. It really ought to be sent as soon as possible."

"I'm sorry," the witch says, "but our mail owls are all out at the moment – all our reliable ones, that is. I'm afraid you'll have to wait."

"It's really quite important that this letter is delivered with the utmost haste," Remus presses, after a glare from Padfoot. "Haven't you got any spares I could use?"

"Well, if you're willing to take the risk, you could try this fellow," she replies, jerking her thumb at the twittering bird over her head. Her skepticism in his ability is so profound she's almost scoffing. "In fact, he's yours if you want him, Mr. Lupin."

Remus makes a nondescript noise of refusal, but can't help looking the owl over again. He knows that Sirius feels very strongly about the letter getting to Harry quickly, and as for the owl's reliability, Sirius has never been one to shy away from a risk. There's no denying the bird's a cute little thing, if slightly obnoxious. It makes another circle of the room, zooming just past Padfoot's head, landing for a moment on Remus's shoulder to give a particularly shrill peep in his ear, before returning to the perch to eye them all with a look of supreme self-satisfaction, which is all the more alarming for coming from a creature the size of a tennis ball.

"No, please," the witch is persisting, having warmed so much and so quickly to her idea that she's beginning to sound desperate. "I'd actually consider it a favour if you took him off my hands. Bloody thing makes sleep hard to… er… yes." She shuts up, suddenly realising she's hardly being persuasive. Remus eyes the owl again, then looks at Padfoot.

"What do you say, Snuffles? Is he the man for the job? Well, bird?" he amends. Padfoot wags his tail and barks, which Remus takes as a yes. "Well," he says with a smile, "I suppose that settles it." The witch grins, relief all over her face.

"New dog, Mr. Lupin? You're going to have quite the menagerie!"

"He's my friend's dog, and I doubt I'll be keeping the owl very long, but thanks all the same. I'll take him."

Minutes later, Remus leaves the post office for home, the tiny owl clutched safely in his hands (he has his own cage at home, which belonged to his parents' owl) and Padfoot leading the way, head held high and proud, tail waving like a flag.

Later that evening they stand in the parlour with the garden door open as Sirius fastens the letter to the tiny owl who is nearly hysterical with excitement. The challenging task performed, Sirius clutches the bird in his hands in an attempt to calm him down before his journey. It is difficult to tell if he is succeeding or not.

"Did you tell Harry you're staying with me?" Remus asks.

"Of course not!" Sirius is indignant. "I wouldn't mention a thing like that and then expect nothing to come of it! Can't trust the mail, these days… Besides, I wouldn't want to get you in any trouble. You're already suspect because Snape had to stick his damned nose into things."

"Never mind that, Sirius. I'll be all right. I'm used to watching my own back. It's yourself you should be concerned about."

"I've got it all under control, Remus. I mentioned to Harry I was going to let some Muggles spot me and take the security off Hogwarts. I mean to, and I mean it to happen far from here, too." Remus nods, understanding what Sirius is trying to say without actually speaking the words.

"You're leaving soon, then?"

"Yes. In two days, three at most."

Remus understands the necessity of Sirius getting out of England as quickly as possible, and staying away for as long as it takes things to settle down somewhat. He is too selfless to put his friend at risk by attempting to persuade him otherwise, but he can't deny to himself that he wishes Sirius didn't have to flee quite so soon. It is all happening too quickly – this sudden revelation of his friend's innocence that turned the world he'd lived in for the past 12 years on its head, this strange renewal of companionship between them, this urgent harboring of Sirius from the law, this awkward but wonderful new experience of not living alone. All he wants is to slow things down a bit, but time is something he has no control over.

"What else did you tell him, if you don't mind me asking?"

"That I'm in hiding… that the dementors can't get me… that I'm safe." He smiles at Remus, and the expression transforms his face utterly.

"I'm… glad." Remus gives his tired, good-humoured smile, which means that he's accepted the unarticulated thanks that Sirius has expressed. It's strange, they way neither of them seem to have the courage to say what they wish to, and Remus thinks it's also somewhat tragic that after twelve years of mutual misunderstandings they still haven't learned openness. He supposes it's all just a part of growing used to each other again, or rather, growing used to the new, twelve-years-older versions of themselves.

"Well," Sirius says, breaking his friend's reverie, "shall we let him go, then?" They walk into the back garden and Sirius stays in his human form for once, still holding the little owl in his hands.

"Mind you reach Harry safely, all right?" Sirius says gruffly to the owl, who gives an indignant peep, as though it would be criminal to believe he'd do anything else. "If not, you'll have me to answer to." With these final words of warning, Sirius opens his hands and releases him into the night, a fluffy white snitch against the black sky and the pale glow of the crescent moon that soon disappears out of sight.

"I hope he makes it," Sirius says softly, still staring up at the sky.

"He'll be all right," Remus reassures him. He pauses a moment, watching Sirius, then finally sighs loudly to break the tension. "Look, I know it's balmy and all, but I rather fancy a cup of cocoa. Would you like some?"

Sirius's grin flashes white in the darkness. They go inside.


	4. Sirius goes south &Remus opens his trunk

They stand facing each other awkwardly in the front of Lupin's house, at the edge of the small gravel road that leads to the village. It is dark. There is no moon tonight and the only light comes from the single lamp burning in the parlour. This parting is strange and unsettled and slightly sad, much as their past few days together have been. Once again, Remus is at a loss as to how to behave around Sirius, who has endured a grown man's sufferings but is in many ways still a boy. Their last parting, before Sirius's arrest, had been utterly without warmth, Sirius suspecting Remus, Remus suspecting Sirius's suspicion, neither willing to acknowledge his feelings or risk a confrontation. The closed door between them then had nearly killed their friendship, and Remus wonders whether foreknowledge would have changed anything. What he wants least of all now is the same door between them, the same bottling of feeling. He doesn't know when he'll next see Sirius, yet he can't bring himself to show the emotions, the fierce fondness and even fiercer fear of slipping back into loneliness. Finally he holds out a self-conscious hand.

"Look after yourself, Sirius."

Sirius gives him a puzzled look, then takes the proffered hand. They shake with obvious discomfiture. "And you as well." His strong grasp belies his frail appearance, and Remus begins to relinquish his hold on Sirius's hand out of instinct. He is not used to being touched, particularly by someone with so firm a grasp, so it is an even greater surprise when Sirius suddenly pulls him into an embrace and they are holding each other close like in the Shrieking Shack: two old friends with only twelve years of estrangement between them and now the mutual knowledge that they have little in the wide world but each other. Remus can feel Sirius shaking against him, and he knows the other man is struggling to hold his emotions in check.

When Sirius speaks his voice is hoarse in Remus's ear. "Thank you, Moony. For everything." He swallows heavily and they break away. Remus does not say what he is thinking, just watches Sirius, looking over his friend's thin form as though trying to memorise him.

Sirius turns and walks over to Buckbeak who is eating mice by the side of the road. He bows carefully and the large beast eyes him, and gives a condescending nod. Sirius climbs onto his back, then looks back at Lupin.

"Keep in touch, Remus. I'll send a letter your way when I get there." His voice is steady once more.

Lupin nods. "Let me know if you need anything. I'll send along a _Prophet_ as often as I can."

"Ta." They look at each other, silently.

"Have everything, then?" Remus asks. "Money? Wand?" Sirius pats the pocket of his robes. "Good. Well, ready?"

"Yes."

"Goodbye then, Sirius."

"Goodbye." Sirius gives a slight nod and grips Buckbeak around his feathery neck. Remus steps forward, pulls out his wand and taps man and beast with a Disillusionment Charm, murmuring the spell in a soft undertone. They shimmer a moment, then camouflage to become part of the night. Remus can barely make out the outline of them, but he can hear the whoosh and feel the rush of air as the hippogriff beats its great wings and takes to the sky. He stands there in the road until the sounds are gone and the only air he can feel is the cool breeze on his face. Then he walks back into the house and shuts the door.

Remus does not go straight to bed, though it is past midnight and he can feel weariness in every aching bone. He lights a lamp in his bedroom and makes his way to the heavy wooden trunk at the back of the closet. It unlocks with a flick of his wand and, kneeling down, he lifts the lid, inhaling deeply the scent of wood and lavender that rises from within. He smiles as he lifts out the old, familiar items: his Gryffindor ties, his scarf with its little holes where Padfoot's paws snagged on it once. His Prefect's badge shining dully in the lamplight, old essays, broken quills, Chocolate Frog cards, Christmas and birthday cards, summer letters, and a wizard's chess set with several pieces missing. And last, an old, leather-bound photograph album resting at the bottom, long unopened. The initials R.J.L. are stamped on the cover, a gift from his parents after he received his Hogwarts letter. He opens the old book and with gentle fingers, flips through the faded pages.

He smiles at the waving people, the moving black and white faces that smile back as though they can see him. Many pages, however, are blank, or have large spaces where pictures have been removed, the photo corners looking naked and slightly ridiculous, framing images that aren't there. Remus flips through the rest of the album, increasingly mystified, and when he closes it he sits a long time with the book resting back-cover up on his lap.

It dawns on him all of a sudden, and he leaps to his feet, places the album back in the trunk, and walks over to his bed, getting down on his hands and knees to peer underneath it. He uses his wand as a torch, running light into the small, dark space with a sweep of his arm. Remus is a tidy person, and doesn't believe in pushing dirt under the carpet or shoving things under the bed as a means of cleaning up, so the space beneath his bed is more or less clear but for a fine layer of dust that's accumulated while he's been away. Sirius's arrival meant that tasks like cleaning his house have been postponed. A last sweep of light in the far corner, however, reveals a box sitting inconspicuously on its own amid the dust. _Of course_, Remus says to himself, _how could I forget?_ He pokes his wand at the corner and intones, "Accio shoebox."

It shoots into his waiting hand in a cloud of dust that leaves him sneezing as he gets to his feet. He goes to the lamp on his bedside table and sits down. His pulse is quickening and his palms feel sweaty, but he opens the lid with forced calm, and there they all are – the pictures of Sirius.

He remembers now, as he sits with the stack of photographs in his hand, taking them out of the album, taking the shoebox from his closet and dumping them unceremoniously inside, vowing he'd never look at them again. It had been two days after James and Lily's murders, Peter's supposed murder, and Sirius's supposed betrayal. He wonders why he didn't destroy the photographs, or least cut Sirius out, but supposes the part of his nature that's inherently opposed to marking or damaging things kept him from it. He is immensely thankful for that now.

Sirius grins cheekily up at him, makes faces, clowns around with James, pants and wags his tail as Padfoot, runs his hand through his hair and poses in that very aristocratic, somewhat haughty way of his, carries a laughing Peter on his back.

Remus shuffles through the photographs, laughter bubbling up inside him at some, others bringing tears to his eyes. He wonders how he survived twelve years without looking through them, as though he thought he could deny this part of his existence completely. And then he comes to it – the best one of them all, the one his mother adored because he looks so happy in it. It is one of the few photographs of himself and Sirius alone, though it is far from being the most aesthetically pleasing. They are blurred, even beyond what is normal for moving wizard pictures, and their pose is casual, hastily thrown together rather than carefully arranged like the annual Hogwarts end-of-term photographs.

It was taken on what Remus still considers the happiest day of his life – the days his friends told him they'd become Animagi. Sirius had turned into Padfoot for a demonstration, run around the room yapping, tail thumping like a mad thing, and ended by putting his paws up on Remus's shoulders and trying to lick his face. Remus had squirmed and laughed in delight and amazement at this dog who was his friend, and couldn't stop laughing even when Sirius had resumed his normal shape and slung an easy arm around his shoulders.

"Well, what do you think, Mate?" Sirius gave his 'pleased with himself' grin, and James pulled a camera seemingly from out of nowhere to capture them. "For posterity," he explained, "so that in the future little witches and wizards everywhere can see this and aspire to our greatness!" They were Animagi at 15, and had done it without proper training, supervision, or, as Remus thanked Merlin, mishap. They'd made a new world record. They had every right to feel proud.

In the photograph, Sirius is somehow managing to look both smug and humble, the utter artlessness of his glee canceling out the self-satisfaction that he plainly feels. He turns to wink at the camera, then looks back at Remus as though he can't get enough of his friend's reaction. Remus's smile is huge and, uncharacteristically for him, shows his teeth. It's a laughing smile, a giddy smile that speaks of a happiness so great he seems ready to burst from it.

Remus stares at his 15-year-old self, remembering the elation, the feeling that Sirius and James and Peter were the best people in the world; that whatever happened afterwards, nothing could destroy this perfect happiness. He swallows back a lump in his throat and reminds himself, as he does not do often enough, that if he has known despair, he has also known the highest peaks of joy.

He puts the photograph on his bedside table beside the pictures of his parents, stows the rest back in the shoebox, and changes for bed. He hangs his robes on the hook on his door, putting on his threadbare pyjamas, glancing once more at the photo before turning off the light. Darkness envelops the house and, with the moon in its weakest phase, renders him blind. Tonight he is purely human – just poor, unemployed Remus Lupin – with no golden wolf eyes to see in the dark. As he shuts his eyes he imagines Sirius somewhere else in the night, speeding away under a starless sky on Buckbeak, toward sunlight and warm sand. Toward safety and freedom and a place that Remus knows very little about except that it is far from the dementors and from England and from him.


End file.
